


Part of Your World

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Adrenaline, Declarations Of Love, Disney World, First Time Blow Jobs, Florida, Interruptus, Love, M/M, On the Run, happiest place on earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'll be easy, Cobb said. Fast and Easy. But it's not. And Arthur winds up hiding at Disney World in plain sight. Until he's discovered.</p>
<p>For the AMAZING art that inspired this fic--  <a href="http://afterdinnergames.tumblr.com/post/130626262915/inception-reverse-bang-art-1">Fennegie's Inception Art NSFW</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of Your World

**Author's Note:**

> Possible Trigger Warnings: Adrenaline surge from being chased.
> 
> this is part of the Inception ReverseBang fest. I took a LOT of liberties with things like airports and planes. Please forgive.
> 
> The title comes from the Little Mermaid song, Part of Your World.
> 
> Huge thanks to 221Btls and GeronimoAndBeMagnificient for their eyes, beta skills and patience.

The motorcycle screamed up the A3 from Reggio to Rome, blowing past cars doing 85 like they were standing still. Arthur's muscles burned, cramping after being hunched over the handlebars for 6 hours. His bladder yelled for him to stop but he didn't dare risk it.

Fuck. It wasn't supposed to be like this, Arthur cursed for the hundredth time, his stomach churning with fear and adrenaline. Cobb had hooked Arthur with the lure of a payout big enough to give him those 3 months (maybe stretch it to 4 if he ate fewer meals) in Paris. He wouldn't have to work; he could use that time to write the novel that had been percolating in his mind for years.

It’ll be easy, Cobb had said. Once we hit Calabria, we’ll go in, grab the location of the cocaine and the money and get out, Cobb had said. Let the two mafias shoot it out, Cobb had said. By the time they realized anything was missing, Arthur and the team would be _gone, baby, gone_.

But here he was, burning the fucking rubber off the tires of this stolen motorcycle, trying to get to Rome without being killed. Or worse, captured. Because the job went tits up. And it went tits up fast.

The freak power surge had blacked out the entire building. Fucking Yusuf hadn't checked the battery back-up, so the PASIV devices had gone off line. When Arthur came up, the mark was lucid, cursing and thrashing in his seat, working to unhook himself. The door to the penthouse suite crashed open and tree-sized body guards swarmed in. Cobb screamed "Four Corners!” Meaning, fight your way past them, take them out if you have to, and get the fuck as far away from here as you can—alone. Don’t risk the team. Never risk the team.

When he’d cleared the building, his first goal became changing his look and ASAP. The goons chasing him would've latched on to his most obvious characteristics: slicked-back hair and a pricey three-piece suit.

Arthur had ducked into a trinkets shop and lost himself in the throng of Americans buying souvenir reminders of their time abroad. In perfect Italian he’d begged to use the shop’s toilet, palming a pair of scissors from the counter as the clerk turned to lead him to the back. As they pushed through the noisy crowd toward the loo, Arthur slid his hand through the raised handle of a man's suitcase, casually rolling it behind him as if it had been his all along.

“Grazie. Grazie infinite davvero.” Arthur held his stomach and grimaced, hoping it would pass for intestinal distress. The woman held up her hand to stop any further discussion. Arthur closed and locked the door and collapsed against it, burying his face in his hands.

Breathe. Breathe. He was safe--relatively safe--in the bathroom. He scrubbed at his face, trying to think. Hopefully anyone chasing him wouldn't shoot their way through the shop.

With a curt nod, Arthur stripped down to his boxer-briefs. Hair first, then new clothes. And whatever he did, it had to be fast.

Arthur’d cringed; he loved this haircut, but he needed a drastic change. With scissors in hand, he hacked at his bangs and top layer. Hoping he’d cut enough off, Arthur ran his wet hands through his hair hoping to re-activate the product he’d put in that morning. He pulled the short strands into spikes, hoping to mask the crap job he’d done. If I could find dye…

Arthur unzipped the cheap, black polyester luggage. Judging from the contents of the suitcase, the owner had been heading for a weekend beach holiday. The man had packed two outfits--¬jeans or swim trunks. A button-down shirt or tank top. Sandals. Arthur’s stomach clenched, knowing that he didn’t have enough time to grab someone else’s suitcase. He chose the jeans and tank top; they’d have to do. He had to get out of town and he was burning precious seconds.

Once he was dressed, Arthur assessed his new look; the black tank top was a size too small, clinging to his abdomen and pulling at his shoulder blades. The jeans were tight in his ass and crotch, emphasizing his bulge. “Great. I’m a fucking rent boy,” he thought as he forced his feet into the sandals.

As he grabbed his wallet and glasses from his jacket, he realized that all of his things were still at the hotel—including his passport, which was the most important for return travel. “Goddammit, I don’t have a fucking passport.” The muscles in his neck throbbed.

He was completely out of his comfort zone in Italy. Today’s clusterfuck was his first job here; he knew no one, had no one he could trust, especially now that he was on the run.  
With his closest safety deposit box at a bank in Paris, Arthur had no choice. He ripped through the pockets of the luggage, praying the man was stupid enough to keep his passport in there.

Yesssss. He forced the man's passport into the taut back pocket of his jeans. Arthur had enough skill to change the photo and make it look untouched. It wasn’t ideal but it would work. When he got to Paris, he’d grab one of his fake ID’s from his safety deposit box, but for now he was Edward Holmstead.

Arthur folded the suit and shirt, packing it in the man's case. Hopefully he’d wear the hell out of Arthur’s favorite suit, but judging from the contents of the suitcase, he doubted it. He dropped a €100 into the suitcase to thank the unsuspecting sap.

When he cracked open the bathroom door, Arthur heard a man shouting _“Someone stole my suitcase!”_ The panic in his voice escalated each time he repeated it to the clerks. Taking advantage of the chaos, Arthur walked up the other aisle and left the bag inside the door as he left the store and hit the pavement with the casual air of a tourist with too much time and not enough direction. He kept pace on the busy sidewalks, checking in store windows to see if he were being followed. All while his mind raced, forming plans.

If he could get to Rome, then he could fly to Paris and get to the ID. Logically, they’d focus on the train platforms, bus station, airports. A sleek black Ducati motorcycle gleamed in the morning sun outside of a sandwich shop. Problem solved. Arthur scoffed at the steering lock and within seconds, he bypassed it and was turning north on Via Della Repubblica toward Rome.

Six hours on a motorcycle. Arthur’s back hurt; his hips ached. Thank God the helmet had a plastic face shield. At least his teeth weren't covered with bugs.

When he reached Da Vinci International Airport, Arthur slowed the Ducati and parked in one of the one-hour spaces. He left the motorcycle running, walking away as casually as possible. It would be stolen in seconds. Navigating the unfamiliar airport, Arthur scrolled through his itinerary in his head: Rome to Paris, get his identification, then Paris to Orlando. He’d disappear within Walt Disney World in Florida. While the outrageous number of people there on any given day insured anonymity, Arthur just really liked it there.

Paying online with an alias’ credit card he’d committed to memory, Arthur booked a Paris flight for Edward Holmstead, leaving in 90 minutes. That gave him time to swap the photo in the passport, get through customs and security, all while watching to see if he were being tracked. Arthur doubted anyone followed him to Rome, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out he would be leaving the country.

Arthur found an AirStore where he could buy what he needed to adapt the passport. He kept his head down and away from any surveillance cameras, trying to be as unremarkable as possible, until his stomach growled loudly enough for the people around him to stop and smile. At least that explained why he felt sluggish and dull; it had been too many hours since he’d eaten. Arthur added a candy bar and banana to his purchase.

He ducked into a men’s room stall, removing his items from the store’s plastic bag. Every movement, every breath echoed off the tiled walls. Too much adrenaline, too little food—Arthur’s muscles pulled tight to the point of shattering. He did the best he could; it would pass if he had to show it. Hopefully, they’d assume he was an Italian national and not even ask.

Arthur walked the concourse for two reasons. He checked to see if he were being followed and he needed time for the glue to dry on his passport. When he stopped to look in shop windows, three separate men and one woman asked to buy his sexual services.

_Damn rent boy clothes._ Should have bought a new outfit. But the thought came too late. Once he checked the time on his phone, he sprinted toward the gate before he missed the flight. He made it to his seat with just enough time to check his phone for messages; when he’d first gotten it, he’d hacked the iPhone and rendered it untraceable. That one tweak ensured he’d never need a burn phone.

He had one 10-second voice message from a number he didn’t recognize. As Arthur played back the voice mail, a familiar growl greeted him. “Darling, it's me. Where did we decide for dinner?”

Eames. The new number belonged to Eames. With his ridiculous darling, he told Arthur that he’d made it out safely. No one else from the team had called; he said a quick prayer for their safety. Eames always messaged Arthur, which was weird to him since they barely know each other. Arthur sent him a text. “Don’t darling me. Check in with everyone. Dinner cancelled. Going to find my happy place.”

Rome to Paris was uneventful, but one of the men who’d hit on him wound up on the flight. Arthur’s stomach churned, making sure he kept the man in sight in case he’d been hired to take Arthur out. And not in the good way.

Arthur bolted off the plane when it landed in France, again feigning intestinal distress. When he began to explain it in perfect French, every person in front of him allowed him to pass, if only to put an end to vivid details. Thank God for weak-stomached travelers. Arthur hired the first taxi that he found, handing the driver a 50 Euro note and directing him down one way streets and back and forth across the city before stopping at the EuropeArab Bank on the Champs Elysées to retrieve his ID. The taxi raced back to the airport at the last moment for boarding.

Arthur swept the plane for familiar faces before he turned to first-class. Although no one looked familiar, he reminded himself to look beyond clothing and hair; still, no one stood out. For the first time in almost 24 hours, Arthur breathed easier. He settled into his oversized seat, slipped on the dark eye mask, and slept from Paris to Florida.

As he disembarked, Arthur made one final sweep of passengers, acknowledging he was as safe as he would be anywhere. Feeling rejuvenated by the uninterrupted sleep and the warm October sun, he waited at the arrivals ramp for a taxi that would take him into Disney. When the Disney Hotel’s bus pulled up in front of the taxi stand, Arthur changed to the bus that would take him directly to hotels.

The bus driver bought Arthur’s clueless teen traveler story about his reservation being lost in the inter-webs and agreed to drop him Disney’s Yacht Club _“to meet my freakin’ parents who’ve been here like, forever.”_ He wove a tale of European travel for the driver, who listened patiently and never once looked at Arthur’s face.

The art of deception was hiding in plain sight, creating a backstory with flash and then changing who he was. Arthur sat in a wooden rocker on the resort’s front porch, reveling in the soul-warming sun and imagining the character he wanted to be. His clothing and hair didn’t offer much wiggle room.

When he knew his persona down to the smallest details, Arthur opened his eyes, exhaled and clothed himself in that man’s characteristics. He stood in the line for the front desk, his hands fidgeting with his phone as he obviously held back tears. His voice wavering, he leaned closer to the young woman behind the desk.

In a passable British public school accent, Arthur whispered to her, sounding as if he would cry if he had to speak one further word. “Do you have any rooms available. My boyfriend and I, we…we came here on holiday. I thought we were life partners, but he—I caught him making a date with someone else.” Arthur sniffled and wiped his eyes.

The clerk, who’d finally looked up from her keyboard, fell apart with his tears. “Bless your heart.” Breezi (from Charleston, SC her nametag said) patted his hand and offered Arthur a tissue from a pocket packet. “Let me see what I can do for you.’

Arthur looked despondent, which broke Breezi's heart just as he’d planned. “Would you have any rooms open for a few days? My plane doesn't leave until Saturday afternoon. And I cannot go back to him. I just can’t.”

“Now sugar, we’ll find you something. Here. Have a mint while I search.” She handed him a candy bowl of red and white starlight mints. Arthur took one, happy for the fresher breath after the long flight and held back his smile.

He hadn’t planned beyond getting to Disney. He wanted the luxury of this resort; as soon as he could, he’d ditch this outfit and search out one of the hotel’s boutiques to buy suitable clothes. And a proper haircut. Beyond that—and being vigilant—he had no idea.

True to her word, Breezi found poor, jilted Randall Ainsley a suite. “It’s probably more than you wanted to spend, Mr. Ainsley, but it is literally the only open room. Conventions. Always conventions.” Breezi returned Randall’s credit card and offered him a sympathetic smile with the room key.

Secure in a room thousands of miles from Italy and 48 hours from the dream sharing team, Arthur breathed. Deep in and out. He prescribed himself a hot shower. As the water beat down on his muscles, he allowed the stress to ebb from his jaw, the cords in his neck, his shoulders. He imagined it leaving through his fingertips and mingling with the water down the drain. Arthur reminded himself that he deserved this vacation. The Happiest Place on Earth.

Refreshed, Arthur grimaced at the clothes he’d worn for two days; without an alternative, he had no choice but to climb back into them. Hopefully, _Fittings and Fairings_ wouldn’t toss him out on sight; he needed the new clothes to find his Arthur-ness again even as Randall

Like a scene from Pretty Woman, Arthur walked into the boutique and three sales clerks converged on him. They hesitated but Arthur, always the point man, described the style, color, and size he wanted and within an hour he returned to his room weighed down by his purchases. They weren't bespoke, but Arthur admitted they were better than his stolen clothes.

With the adrenaline drop and the two days of non-stop travel, Arthur'd abused his body. He needed sleep and if he didn't give in, his body would take what it needed. So he piled the store's bags on a chair and burrowed under the down duvet.

Just a little nap he thought as sleep nipped at the edges of his consciousness. _I’ll go into the Magic Kingdom. Take pictures of Cinderella's Castle. Maybe get my picture taken with Chip and Dale._ They reminded him of Eames. _Insouciant, carefree._

Arthur’s subconscious recognized what his waking brain denied. Eames’ joie de vivre countered Arthurs puritanical work ethic. He made Arthur laugh, sometimes even forget about The Work. His final thought before he drifted off was of him and Eames lying in bed curled into each other and asleep, the crisp white sheets tangled around their legs.

He dreamt of the two of them living in his Paris flat. Sitting on the balcony, eating croissants and drinking espresso. Eames scraped his metal spoon along the wrought-iron table, but it scared Arthur. It scraped again.

Wrenched from sleep, Arthur sat upright. His pulse spiked with the fear as he heard the sound again. It was coming from the other room. Instinctively, Arthur reached for his gun before he remembered he didn’t have one.

Fuck. With no goddamn gun, what were his options. He scanned the room—he could slam them with the desk chair and knock them unconscious, but it would be too easy to block.

Second he could throw a blanket over their heads and catch them off-guard. Beat the shit out of them. A bit 1950’s television but possible. If he hit them with the blanket right, he could beat the shit out of them or kill them if necessary. Because, he had a vacation to enjoy.

His brain pinged, providing scenarios and calculating odds of success. One on one, his chance of success was high. But one thought wrote itself in neon: his black belt didn't mean fuck against a gun. Guns versus fist, no brainer what won.

Arthur grabbed the king-sized duvet and stood behind the door. For the first moments, he’d have surprise in his favor, and that would be his best chance to take out the intruder. He willed time to slow, allowing him to focus on sounds and anticipate movement.

The lock’s tumblers disengaged, and the door swung open in silence.

In one fluid move, Arthur wrenched the door, sending the single intruder off balance. He flung the blanket over the intruder’s head, dodging the wild fists and knees. Arthur body-slammed the goon into the wall and smashed a right hook to his temple. The intruder crumpled, and Arthur dragged him face down into the suite’s sitting room. He shut and bolted the door, hoping that the flimsy lock would at least buy him time if backup came.

Arthur rolled the man onto his back, and if his head slammed against the floor in the process, then so sorry. He straddled the body of the intruder and pulled the blanket down. He smiled broadly; he had the upper hand now.

~*~

The intruder roused slowly. His brain felt thick and slow, unable to finish a thought. He tried to rub his throbbing temple, but his hands wouldn’t move. So, wrists cuffed together then. The blackness that surrounded him wouldn’t lift. He squinted his eyes and felt fabric move against his cheek. Ah. Blindfolded. Cheeky bastard.

“Darling,” the intruder tried to say, clearing his throat several times before the sounds came out as recognizable words. “I can’t seem to move my arms.”

“That’s because your wrists are tied with strips of bedsheets,” Arthur said from somewhere behind him, curt and cold.

“I can’t seem to see anything, either.”

“That’s because you’re blindfolded.” Arthur wouldn't give him anything. 

“Another strip of bedsheet? I don’t suppose there would be any chance that you would remove them all?”

“Oh, no.” Arthur shook his head and dragged out the noooooo with something like a smile on his face.

Eames could almost hear that smirk on his damn mouth, and God if he didn't want to wipe it right off. 

Arthur picked up the steak knife he’d lifted from a room service tray abandoned in the hallway, and dragged the sharp tip across Eames' wrists. “If you’re good, I’ll untie your hands. If you’re bad—”

“I’ll be even better.” Eames flirted as always. This time, Arthur heard something promising under the words.

“Shut it, you.” No. No _promises_. This asshole fucking followed him. Arthur pulled at the fabric around Eames’ fists, slamming his back into the slats of the desk chair. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t stalk me and scare the fuck out of me when the Mafia is after me.”

Arthur leaned down to Eames’ ear. “How did you find me?”

“I always know where you are.” Eames said it simply, unequivocally. It was a given. “To be fair, I wasn’t quite sure whether you would be at the Beach Club or the Yacht Club resort.”

“Why would you know that about me? We barely know each other.” Arthur stood at suite’s dining table, remaining behind Eames. He dropped the knife, wanting it out of his hand.

“I know more than you would expect.” Eames enjoyed this, surprising Arthur. He toed off his shoes and socks, wiggling his newly-freed toes. “I know that you love hot chocolate with whipped cream, but you love your tailored trousers more, so you never order it. I know that, on the job, you appear disinterested in romance but I see the way you look at Cobb and Mal when they're together.

“And I know that the best vacation you ever took was when you were 8 and went to Disney World. Not Tahiti. Not Rio. Paris comes close, but for you, the happiest place in the world is here.”

Arthur jerked the chair around, and almost ripped Eames out of it, grabbing two fists of his shirt. Since Eames’ wrists were tied between the back slats, Arthur pulled him up as high as he could without dislocating his shoulder. Even then, he had to force himself to stop.

“How do you know that? Any of that?” Red splotches stood out against Arthur's cheekbones, his face gone white in anger. He leaned in, his proximity meant to threaten Eames.

Arthur shook him, but Eames didn’t ruffle. “I listen when you speak, darling. Have you ever wondered how it is that we’re so often paired on jobs? In Kyoto, before we completed a job, you told Cobb I was the best forger you’d ever worked with. You never told me, though.”

That was true. Arthur never told anyone except Cobb. God forbid it had gotten back to Eames and his over-inflated ego…

“Once, in down time while we were preparing for a job, you told Mal about the best gift you’d ever gotten. Santa gave you and your mother a DisneyWorld vacation. You glowed as you told her about eating peanut butter sandwiches in the hotel room like a picnic. How you were disappointed because you couldn’t get a pair of mouse ears with your name on them. But you understood when your mum said Santa didn’t bring you those.”

Arthur dropped Eames into the chair. His fury slipped away with Eames’ words. “Why. Why would you listen and remember like that.”

“Because, darling, I enjoy you. Your sarcastic comments. Your company. I find I quite fancy you.”

Still blindfolded, Eames felt Arthur’s breath on his face—not the angry, short huffs but the long, deep inhalations that meant Arthur was thinking, weighing. Eames leaned forward as much as his bonds would allow.

“And I think, if you examine your thoughts, you quite fancy me, also.” He nudged Arthur’s chin with his nose, the faint beginning of whiskers tickling him. “Kiss me.”

Arthur’s breath caught. _This man was mad_ , he thought as his heart raced, but he didn’t move his face away from Eames’.

“Kiss me.” Eames’ lips found Arthur’s. Hesitating. Tentative. Warm. Sweet.

The force of the connection, the passion when their lips met shocked Arthur, who tried to pull back. “Don’t you dare,” Eames threatened, his lips on Arthur’s jaw. “Please. Don’t run.”

Run? Yes. Run. Run now. Stay. Stay here for this, Eames’ lips on him. Eames and him. Eames.

Arthur brought his mouth back, breathing Eames’ air as if that could be enough. His forehead rested against Eames’. “You tell me now, when you’re all tied up?”

“You’ve never heard me before.”

Careful Arthur, who’d built his Wall of Preservation stone by stone laying the mortar down thick and tidy to ensure it would outlast every disaster, never dreamt he’d meet Eames. For years, he stood at the wall that Arthur had built, tip-tapping with his wisecracks and pet names. With his _“Darling, Petal, Kitten,”_ chipping away at the grout around the stones until the mortar washed out.

“But you always call people—”

“Do I?” Still blindfolded, Eames couldn’t make eye contact but he smiled, unexpectedly shy at the disclosure.

Arthur replayed the times they’d worked together. The small, quick jobs and those that were the long game. Eames’ palm on the small of his back as they passed through a small space. His hand lingering a few moments too long on Arthur’s shoulder. His fingers sliding over Arthur’s as he handed him mugs of that nasty tea that he made.

Arthur slipped the blindfold from Eames’ eyes. He needed to see the one part of Eames that never lied.  
“It’s true.” Arthur’s voice, little more than a whisper.

“It is true, petal. I’m quite smitten.” Eames’ face was open and honest. And a giant bruise where Arthur’s fist had connected. “I do hope that’s alright.”

Eames watched Arthur walk away and held his breath, hoping he hadn’t said too much too soon. When he saw Arthur retrieve the steak knife from the table, he released that breath in a slow, soft stream.

Arthur hacked through the strips of bedsheet that held Eames to this chair and massaged his wrists, his arms, his shoulders, where the muscles screamed from being bound.

Eames winced as he raised his hands to Arthur’s face. “May need a dose or two of ibuprofen, if I’m to be as limber as I’d like.” His thumbs traced the line of Arthur’s jaw, his lips, his cheekbones, only breaking his eyes away when he leaned in to kiss Arthur.

Of all the jobs Arthur arranged to the most infinitesimal details. Of all the people he screened and hired. Of all the marks he researched. How did he miss this? That he needed this. Wanted this. Wanted him.

“My dear Eames, I find that I’m quite smitten, also.” Arthur attempted to sound British, to mimic Eames.

“No, please. No.” Eames covered Arthur’s mouth with his hand. “Please never speak that way again. It’s a disgrace. It’s as if millions of voices cried out in terror…”

Arthur laughed, unsure what to say or do next. Kissing Eames again seemed like a pretty good idea. A pretty fucking good idea.

As their lips met and their teeth nipped, Eames pulled Arthur’s black tank top from the snug jeans. “I want to touch you,” he whispered.

Eames pulled Arthur’s shirt over his head, tossing it onto the table. He stroked up and down Arthur’s back, his shoulders, his stomach, dipping his fingertips below the waistband. Arthur hissed, rolling his hips toward Eames.

Arthur returned to Eames’ mouth and jaw. “You came for me. Across the world to find me.”

“I’d do it again. I’ll do it every time.” The honesty in Eames’ words was the hottest, most seductive thing Arthur had ever heard. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned Eames’ silky shirt as quickly as he could. It wound up on the table on top of Arthur’s tank.

Without asking permission, Arthur unbuckled Eames’ belt, his fingers fumbling and shaking from need. Eames moved back and unzipped his trousers, pulling his pants down at the same time. He toed them to the side and moved back to Arthur.

Eames stood with his eyes closed, as Arthur’s fingers traced his tattoos.

“How did you know which hotel?” Arthur asked, his hand teasing Eames’ cock, encircling it, but denying it any pressure or friction.

Eames closed his eyes, enjoying every touch. “You love the beach, and that meant the Yacht Club or the Boardwalk. I admit I went there first, looking for you. I told the clerk a sad tale.”

Arthur dropped to his knees. “What did you tell that poor clerk?”

“I told her that you were my boyfriend, and we were here on vacation. You saw me chatting up a handsome waiter and drew the wrong conclusion and swanned off. I may have added that I’d been making special plans.” Eames’ voice was breathy as Arthur’s mouth explored him.

Arthur’s fingers kneaded Eames’ bottom while he kissed Eames’ thighs. The crease of his thigh. “What special plans?’’

With more will than he knew he had, Eames held himself in check, not pushing his hips forward into Arthur’s face. If Arthur kept that up, the light touches, brushing his lips across the slit of his cock, Eames wouldn’t be able to hold back.

“I told her—”

Arthur’s tongue swirled around the head of the cock, licking at the drops that beaded there. “Yes?”

“That I wasn’t chatting him up. That—I needed the waiter’s help because I was going to ask you to marry me.”

Arthur stopped teasing and swallowed Eames’ entire length. He loved this, the letting go, the taking what he wanted, giving pleasure. Finding the right movements at the best times. And hearing his partner shatter, piece by piece.

Eames didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, and didn’t trust himself not to blurt out the words it was too soon to say.

Arthur pulled off and looked up at Eames. “Would I say yes?”

He watched Eames try to make sense of his question and unable to do so. Arthur asked, “When you ask me in your story, do I say yes?”

Eames’ eyes didn’t move from Arthur’s. His pupils, dark and wide, saw. Felt. Knew. “Yes.”

Arthur stood in one graceful movement and cupped Eames’ cheeks in his hands. He kissed Eames with the sweet, lingering kiss of those with time to spend.

_How had he missed this? Not in Eames, but in himself. Because he knew. When Arthur realized he’d attacked Eames—once he knew that Eames wasn’t actually hurt¬—Arthur felt safe, happy. He felt—righted. That things would be fine because Eames was there._

Eames buried his face in Arthur’s neck. He needed this. To feel Arthur against him and know that it wasn’t a fiction they’d created. If he could reach his trousers (even though he had no idea where they were), he wouldn’t have to check his totem to know this was reality.

Eames’ fingers floundered pushing the button through the small hole of the jeans. Arthur batted his fingers away to unzip the fly himself as Eames stepped back and wrapped his fist around his cock. He couldn’t move it, couldn’t stroke it; he didn’t trust himself to stop.

The doorbell in the suite chimed the notes to _Under the Sea_.

“Are you expecting company, darling?” Eames whispered lightly, but his eyes roamed the room looking for potential weapons.

Arthur pressed his finger to his lips and held his breath, listening to his heart pound. Maybe they weren’t in the clear yet.

_Under the sea, under the sea..._

“Persistent, aren’t they?” Eames whispered, shimmying into his boxer shorts.

“Room Service!” The southern lilt of a sun-shiny, happy female voice followed a rapid knock on the door. “For the happy couple!”

Arthur turned to Eames, whose face was as confused as his. “Did you order this?”

Eames raised an eyebrow, which clearly said, _“Would I have interrupted this for food?”_

“Mr. Ainsley…it’s Breezi, from the front desk.”

Arthur relaxed enough to nod. “It’s possible,” he mouthed. He struggled into the jeans before he answered the door, cracking it open enough to see the young woman he’d spoken to at the front desk. Which meant—most likely—she wasn’t a Mafia assassin.

“Ohhhh,” she squeed. “I had the kitchen make you a special lunch in case—” Breezi nudged the door open with the cart. She pushed past shirtless Arthur and Eames in his underwear. “You’re back together! I’m so happy.”

Eames, wearing only his boxers, scrambled to pull the blanket around him.

“Oh, don’t worry Mr. Smith!” Breezi said as she cleared the suite’s dining table. “I have brothers at home. I know what a naked man looks like!” She hummed Under the Sea as she moved their discarded clothes, folded them and placed them on the couch. She opened the white cloth, smoothing out any wrinkles, and set the food on the table.

“I’ll just leave you two alone, in case you have anything to talk about.” Breezi giggled and let herself out.

“I had no idea,” Arthur said, unsure if the interruption changed their moment.

“We have the rest of our lives,” Eames said, looking at Arthur to be sure this was real. It felt real. God, he wanted it to _be_ real.

Arthur closed the gap between them. He pressed his body against Eames and kissed him in a way that would’ve been unthinkable 48 hours before. “Yeah.”

Eames’ response was a stomach grumble, loud enough that Arthur laughed. They sat at the table that Breezi had arranged and ate. When they’d finished, Arthur took Eames’ hand.

“I want to show you something really amazing,” he said, barely containing his excitement. “Do you trust me?” Eames nodded with bright eyes, but when Arthur told him to get dressed he realized he had the wrong idea. Arthur laughed at him and led him out of the hotel.

As they stood in front of Cinderella’s castle, Arthur twined his fingers with Eames, who was captivated by the magic. “I understand why this is important to you,” Eames said simply, his voice accompanied by music from the Mickey Mouse revue on stage behind them. The castle rose, regal against the blue sky streaked with long white clouds. The thick, dark afternoon thunder clouds held off their arrival, not to ruin the moment.

“Thanks for not laughing.” Arthur’s cheeks pinked as he avoided Eames’ gaze.

Eames drew Arthur to him. “I’ll never laugh at you, darling. We all need to remember to dream a little bigger.”

In the Magic Kingdom, in front of families of strangers, Arthur kissed Eames. Thoroughly. But he remembered to keep his hands ‘family-friendly.’

Behind them, the Mouse Revue ended, sending streams of visitors into the walk ways amid the calls of cart-vendors.

“Wait here,” Eames smiled and pecked Arthur’s cheek. “Don’t move!” he warned as he disappeared into the crowd.

When Eames reappeared, he wore a black Mickey Mouse ear hat. Arthur’s happiness bubbled over when Eames placed one on Arthur’s head. Instead of their names, the embroidery read “Mr.” on one and “Mr.” on the other.

“Breezi will think we’re married,” Arthur laughed as he put his back on, walking further into the park.

Eames stopped Arthur and searched his face. “Would that be so bad?”

Arthur shook his head, but didn’t speak. Just being in the Magic Kingdom after all these years, with Eames—it was too much.

“What? What are you thinking?”

Arthur laughed and said, “It’s really sappy.”

“Petal, I find I don’t mind sappy so much when it’s you.”

“When I left Italy, I was running away from something. I had no idea I’d be running toward something.” Arthur kissed Eames fingers, which were still wrapped in his. “This really is the happiest place on earth.”


End file.
